


Summus

by HellBunny



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU: Rehab, Dark Sherlock, Darklock, Druggie Sherlock, Druggie!Sherlock, Druglock, Drugs, Illlock, Junkie Sherlock, Junkie!Sherlock, Mental Hospital, Mental Illness, Other, Rehab, Rehabilitation, dark!Sherlock, junkie!lock, sick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3100109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellBunny/pseuds/HellBunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a junkie<br/>Mycroft knows<br/>Sherlock is in a rehab facility and wants Mycroft to get him out<br/>Mycroft is stubbun.</p>
<p>*Other characters will be added shortly, as well as more chapters. I am right now focused more on my BDSMLock fic 'Morsus' but new chapters will be out every Sunday, hopefully unless disaster strikes*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An explanation for substance abuse

**Author's Note:**

> Notes for this chapter, um... I wrote this at around 11 at night, and went to bed. At one I woke up and I was editing this until like two or three in the morning so its probably mostly gibberish with some pretty bad spelling mistakes in it but hell... I would find that entertaining so here you go

"You fucking sadist!" came a cry from one of the rooms down the hall.

  
Sherlock remained almost completely motionless on his bed, save for the rise and fall of his slow heavy breathing. It had been two weeks of complete refusal to talk to any of the doctors for them to agree to him calling his brother, Mycroft.

  
Sherlock had no idea how it had come to this. The Monday before his admittance, he had been almost care free. The only problems having been the next dealer he was going to be able to score from, and where the money was going to come from.

  
Obviously Sherlock had other small goings-on. He had never really been much of a happy person and he had to deal with what was probably depression on a daily basis. Luckily he had a home he could go to and shoot up. He was glad he wasn't completely alone, with the company of Mrs. Hudson just down stairs. 

Not any more though.

  
Now it was just white walls, white sheets and white pills.

  
Strange, though it may be Sherlock was doing better than anybody had thought he would. Especially the security guards, nurses, doctors and his brother that witnessed his reaction the first time he had been brought -more dragged- into the front desk of the hospital.

Sherlock was completely doped out of his mind on some concoction of two drugs that made him relaxed, violent and emotional.

  
Sherlock had burst through the front door of the rehab facility having escaped his brothers vice like grip near the front entrance. Luckily for Mycroft, the entrance was protected with high walls, which his brother was in no state to climb. His only option was to run into the rehab facility. He did just that.

  
As soon as Sherlock crossed the threshold Mycroft stopped pretending to chase him and lazily walked the rest of the way to the door where he found two security guards holding his brother on his stomach, tight to the ground.

  
The dazed, startled look Sherlock showed him was enough to make his eyes water, but he quickly wiped them away and drawled "Oh do behave, brother dear. You're making a scene"

  
There was no reply. Mycroft signed all the necessary documents and as soon as pen left paper Sherlock was being injected with a chemical restraint.

  
When he woke up in the morning, he was groggy, and unimpressed.

  
Most of all the headache was feeling like it was about to kill him painfully, and slowly.

  
He was going to go through withdrawal and there was nothing he could do about it. No small lick of cocaine. No tiny syringe full of heroin. Not even a joint to take the edge off. He doubted he would even get any pain killers.

  
A long road of agony stretched out in front of Sherlock Holmes and he really did not like what he saw.

  
Weeks later, Sherlock was still being confined in his room. He had insisted, multiple times that he had gone through withdrawal and was never going to use again. He had told multiple nurses that having gone through the horrors of not using, he understood how bad it really was for the body and he was ready to leave and carry on with his life.   
The nurses, however had just given him a sad smile and told him to go and lie down for a little while.

The phone was brought to Sherlock, and one of the attendants sat down on a chair that was bolted to the floor in the corner of the young mans room. This was the best he could hope for, he supposed.

  
Ringing Mycrofts number was harder than he remembered. He vision was dazed and he could barely recall yesterday, let alone each individual number of his ridiculous brothers ridiculous telephone number. Luckily, eventually he was able to retrieve the information from his quickly crumbling mind palace before that room fell apart completely. He had no desire to fix it.

He just wanted to get out, get high, and get even.

  
Mycroft picked up sounding bored but underneath it was surprise. He had told the hospital not to ring him unless either his brother had escaped, or died. He guessed it was the latter, and prepared himself for the worst. The Holmes brother hadn't specified what to do in the event his baby brother was cured, as he deemed it too unlikely.

  
He expected to hear a doctors voice. Instead, the cracked, dry voice of his brother half whispered down the phone.

  
"Mycroft" Sherlock said.

  
"Sherlock" His brother replied, carefully.

  
"I need your help-"

  
"Oh for goodness sake, brother. Its only been a few weeks and your already making a plea of innocence to me. Out of everyone you could have called, you decided to talk to the one who saw the look in your eye the day we brought you in. You looked like a murderer, Sherlock. I was scared for you, I must admit"

  
"I know Mycroft"

  
"I don't think you do-" his brother started, ready to rant at his younger brother and then put the phone down. He was, however stopped by a strange noise from the other end. His brother, Mycroft realized was very silently crying. Almost too low to be able to pick out, but to Mycrofts trained ears it was an unmistakable sound. He had heard it enough when they were young boys, after Sherlock had had an argument with mother or father and received a punishment. Often physical, if Mycroft remembered correctly. He never received the same treatment, which was one of the reasons the younger brother showed resentment towards him. He had heard that noise on the cameras he installed in his brothers apartment that he had an assistant watch like a hawk to make sure the idiot didn't overdose.

  
So when Mycroft heard it this time, down the phone, he didn't try and comfort him. He simply listened for a while. After about 10 minutes, the sobbing stopped and after a few sniffs a very faint, cracked whisper comes through the end of the phone. It sounds remarkably like "I'm sorry, Mycroft".

  
He couldn't believe it. The elder Holmes brother frowned, happy that he had nobody watching him.

  
"I'm sorry, Sherlock... Could you repeat that?"

  
"I'm sorry Mycroft" came the reply, without hesitation. "I'm sorry, i'm so fucked up. I'm sorry I got addicted to Heroin and Cocaine and Weed and Ecstasy. I'm sorry that I was the one that was beaten, Mycroft. I'm sorry you had to witness that.." With each apology, they became more and more sarcastic, his tone becoming more and more vicious by the second. Mycroft didn't know why nobody was intervening.

  
The morons probably thought letting this all out was therapeutic. They had no idea his brother was just building up his rage. He would explode on the next person to talk to him.

  
Through the tears, and the rage suddenly the line was cut off. Sherlock had put the phone down. That, or somebody had done it for him.

  
Mycroft didn't think about it long enough to worry. He just closed his eyes, leaned his head against the back of his plush leather chair and went to sleep.

************************

Sherlock, however did not get the same comfort. He wasn't even able to sleep on the 'little-bit-too-hard' bed he had become accustomed to for the last two weeks. After the line had been cut off, Sherlock had thrown the phone at the man sat in the corner, along with a long list of insults and later, himself. He punched and kicked as hard as he could before a bevvy of nurses and guards had come into the room and physically restrained him.   
So now, here he was sad in a padded cell wearing a straight jacket and feeling faintly sleepy from the Haldol. And this is were he would remain for the next three days before forgiveness was even an option. 


	2. Convincing the audience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter - Sherlock wakes up in a straight jacket, he meets John. John seems nice, Sherlocks a good actor etc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS IM SO SORRY I FORGOT ABOUT THIS MINI FIC.   
> Ive been concentrating on my longer fic for the entire week. I wrote this chapter last weekend and literally forgot to post it and I only realized just now. Im really really sorry. 
> 
> Oh btw, this is only a lil chapter because at time I was a tiny bit intoxicated and whatnot so dont pay attention to errors and dont be too mean when insulting me for my ridiculously awful writing skills <3

Sherlock awake the next morning in tears. He had, once again had a nightmare. It was the usual type that almost everyone had, which was strange because almost everything about Sherlock was very unusual indeed.

  
He was standing on a boat, blue sea rolling beneath him. He was going to jump. He wasn't scared, though. It was a calm day. Maybe he only wanted a swim, the water seemed warm. But as Sherlock stood there on the end of the small boat the sea got rougher. Clouds started to form overhead and thunder could be heard in the distance. Soon, the boat was rocking so viciously that the teen almost fell into the water before he grabbed the railing. Lightning was the only thing lighting up the sky and everything was completely black. It smelt of salt and seaweed. For what seemed like the first time in all his 17 years Sherlock Holmes was scared, and at that thought the boy woke up.

  
Shaking, sweating and tears rolling down his face he huddled himself up in the corner as best he could with the straight jacket that prevented him from hurting himself. He still felt a little drowsy because of whatever they had given him, but he shook his head to clear it and felt almost normal. Well... as normal as it was possible for him to feel right now.

  
Half an hour later a nurse came in to come and talk to him. He confirmed he was indeed calm now. He even apologized for the outburst and blamed it on heightened emotions because of the withdrawal.

  
Sherlock could have been an Oscar winning actor at this moment, as he asked for something to make him a little calmer to make sure it didn't happen again.

  
"I'm so embarrassed" He said, looking down with a small smile. To her, whether she registered it or not she would take pity on the young boy being embarrassed to even admit he was embarrassed.

  
She left, and 15 minutes later came back with a small cup of water and a white pill. Sherlock took them both, hiding the thing in the corner of his mouth and taking a sip of water. Smiling his thanks, she left.

  
As soon as the door closed he spat it out and mushed it into the material of the floor so it was almost unnoticeable unless you were looking for it.

  
Sherlock spent almost another two days in that room, being checked on by nurses every now and then. He had to fake drowsiness and compliance. He just wanted to leave.

  
On the second day, he was collected. His straight jacket was removed and he was given the choice to either go back to his room or -because his results had been so good on his changed medication- he could go to the common room and speak with the other patients, read, watch some television or play ping pong.

  
Sherlock couldn't imagine spending more time staring at a blank wall so he decided to spend some time with the other patients. Or rather, spent ten minutes deducing all their secrets and then try and find a book that wouldn't bore him to death.

  
Sherlock sat down, and looked around. This would be the most interesting thing he had done since he got here.

  
*******************************************************

  
John Watson didn't like drugs. He never used too, anyway. He hated the idea of them. Hated the idea of an altered sense of state so when he was offered them at a party he decided not to take any.

  
But... at the next party when he was offered a toke of a joint that was being passed round the room he couldn't help but partake. It was only one drag. It wouldn't hurt. 'Doesn't marijuana cure cancer or something?' his drunken mind had told him 'its the THC I think. This can only be helping me'.

  
And so, John Watson through away his inhibitions and started smoking more often with his friends.

  
He never bothered buying his own things, there was always something going around that he could get even a tiny buzz from. He was 15 when he decided he wanted to be a doctor.

  
This was also the same year he had decided to start smoking pot. Also, it was the same year he decided to stop.

  
John was 25 years old when he was admitted into Baker Rehabilitation Center. Room 221, patient number #317.

  
As a doctor, John had easy access to almost any legal prescriptions that he wanted. He just had to fill them out to the name of somebody else, have it filled, and the low budget hospital either didn't notice, or couldn't afford to notice. It was going downhill anyway along with the NHS.

  
It started with sleeping tablets he could just buy in chemists. He wasn't sleeping a lot and thought they might help but he enjoyed the little buzz he got and how easy it made life. One little pill and he was gone with the fairies.

  
He moved onto Valium when he found out it was even stronger. A year later, John was taking everything he could find that would give him a small buzz. If it was too dangerous to get the prescriptions he found himself resorting the huffing nail polish remover and cleaning products in the messy toilets in the hospital before seeing a patient.

  
John had been here for 2 years now. On and off, anyway. Not consecutively. He had been released 2 months after admitting himself and within the week he was back. After 3 months of treatment he was again released, but was admitted again 3 weeks later after breaking into somebody's house to look for money while he was high. Since he lost his job he couldn't afford anything. Most importantly the drugs.

  
And so it carried on, being admitted and released, admitted and released again and again until last year when he decided he would just stay until he no longer thought he would use. Because he knew, he really did know he would go and use again the second he could find a dealer.

  
"You used to be a doctor John" the therapist would say to him. "I can see you being able to return once you get better. And you will get better John" She was smiling usually. More recently she wasn't. She just repeated the same sentence again and again in a monotone voice. "You'll get better, You'll get better, You'll get better".

  
It was starting to drive him crazy.

  
John was sat in the common room on a Tuesday when he first saw the boy. He looked a little like a scare crow. Bony, frail and pale with a mess of black locks that looked like they were starting to form dreadlocks. His eyes had fallen, he was walking slowly, the orderlies weren't even bothering to watch him and he slumped down on a chair close to John, but as the old doctor looked into the boys eyes he saw a spark. This boy wasn't doped up he was faking it. Probably to get out. He should tell someone, the boy looked so young... but he really didn't want to.

  
Instead, John got up to go and talk to the stranger who had caught his eye.

  
"Hi, my names John" he stated in a friendly manner after sitting two seats away from the strange looking teenager.

  
The boy just looked at him and smiled slightly before dropping his head a little more. A good actor, John thought to himself.

  
"Look, I know you're not doped up" John said matter of factually "But don't worry I'm not going to tell anyone. And no one else can tell, by the way".

  
The boy slowly looked at him after looking around to see if any of the orderlies were watching. 

  
"Hi" He replied in a deep voice "Sherlock".

  
"Sorry... excuse me?" John asked, confused.

  
"My name is Sherlock" The teenager voiced again with an eye roll. He looked back at an orderly just as he was turning his head and once again Sherlocks went down as he pretended to be relaxed and complaint. 

"Sherlock Holmes" he half whispered. 


End file.
